One of my works that got recognition at an online writing competition…
Instrument of Death
When people think of me, they think of power, rage, destruction, death…
I was born in a factory in a small down of Utter Pradesh. It was a dark shanty and my creators were dirty, tired men. I am very costly and precious but my creators hardly benefit from my existence, they say it’s the fault of the social structure of the country. Structure in my view is to organize, if you can’t organize well, what’s the purpose of a structure?
Anyway, I am small, shiny and look almost identical to my creed, yet I pride myself of a luminous heritage. My great great grandfather was born in London and was bought to India in a large wooden ship. That time his kind was very less in number. He died when he was shot to in a brave king’s back. His death brought big gains to the British.
My great grandfather was born in India but for the British. He died and was buried in the wall of a meeting ground, after passing through the heart of an Indian who had come to attend a non violent meeting against the British rule. The place is known as Jaliawalan bagh. His death shook and woke a whole nation.
My grandfather, like his father, was created by Indians for British but he was stolen by Indians and used to kill an English policeman. His martyrdom changed the course of history for India, they say. My father was born in free India. He was created for a goonda, who filled him in his pistol and just with flauting the two, built a lot of money and power. My dad finally died when the goonda was killed by his own brother and his own gun.
I am a believer in destiny. And any one would be, if they witnessed the death of my brother. He was instrumental in trade of death. Yes! Trade of death. He was used by a police inspector to stage fake encounters of members of underworld and win medals. People talked about his bravery and honesty, made movies to honor their real life hero while he made money.
As for me, I have already been bought by a local politician, the elections are near they say. To win the elections and tame the democracy, they need to kill some Hindus and some Muslims…don’t know in who’s chest I will die. I don’t know the last words I will hear will be allah or ram.
Oh I talk a lot about death, but that is because my life is intertwined closely with death. I am a tool of it.
And I understand death like no one. My family has seen it all treachery, bravery, betrayal, cheating and all leading to death. I have seen the many faces, reasons and consequences of death. I have even seen it being traded, by people, organizations and even countries. Some countries use it to buy oil, seriously, what a mockery of God’s creation called life.
